The Man in the Faded Jeans

-- I love noir. In my opinion, it's the genre that can't go wrong. For some reason, writers don't write noir pieces anymore, because I think they think that they'll always come across as campy. But the great thing about noir is that it recognizes that real life is far campier than fiction could ever be. Okay, enough preaching. This is what happens when you let me loose on noir. --

"The Man in the Faded Jeans"

Why'd you come here, Bryce?
You think you were going to find an angel
There are no angels in Mt. James
I thought you knew that by now
You used to live here after all

Before that little bitch
Took you out to Van Holton
With the picket fences
And the lawnmowers you can ride on

I'm not looking to start trouble
I got enough of that
I just came here for a drink
But what about you, Bryce?
Why are you here?

I think maybe you're here
For the same reason I'm not
I think you're looking for someone
Maybe the guy who killed Hector?

Don't give me that bullshit
About honoring thy partner
He wasn't just your partner
And I don't care what you go home
And tell the bitch
About what you and he did
When you were staking out a case together

Personally
I don't give a shit
But I do give a shit
About you hanging out
In my dives
Poking around
Asking questions

You left all this
Remember?
You walked out
You don't get to walk back in

Helion's happens to have the only door in existence
That closes but don't open
It's a point of pride
Among the regulars

And what would your wife say
If she knew you were here
Back chatting up the sodomites
Knocking back your old favorite
Ginger grape polyester
With a lemon

What would she say, Bryce?

Hector got killed
Because he liked this world
And because he was sick
Of trying to live in yours
And this one
At the same time

So he got stupid
And stupidity gets you shot
Or stabbed
Which one was it?

Oh, cool off, Bryce
That temper's not impressing anybody
Not anymore
You stopped working out
You got a gut
And I bet you haven't used your right hook
In over a decade

Maybe if you bought Hector
A little house with a lawnmower
And a picket fence
He'd still be alive
But that just wasn't possible, was it?

And let me ask you something
What would I have been
In your little detective story?
I wasn't the partner
And I wasn't the corpse
I guess that would make me
The femme fatale
Wouldn't it?

I have to admit
I'm kind of partial to that idea

I haven't changed, Bryce
Still the same old Nick
With the sharp smile
And the faded jeans

You know
I've had these jeans
For years
They're so old
I found them in a magazine the other day
Under the heading
'No-Go Retro'

For some reason
I took pride in that

In my opinion
You don't toss out a pair of good jeans
Just because they're not pretty anymore
Just because they've seen better days
You don't toss them in the trash
And trade them in for a tighter pair
With newer, more chic looking stains
On the legs

There's blood on these jeans
There's dirt, paint, tar
Salt water, sand, sawdust
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner

But mostly blood
And not just mine either

You want to know whose blood it is, Bryce?

Tell you what
You come upstairs with me
I still got the apartment above the bar
We'll have ourselves a drink
And I'll put two guns down on the table
One for you, one for me
Then I'm going to do to you
What we used to do
Before you turned white bread
And hopped on your lawnmower

And when we're finished
I'll load my gun
You load yours
And I'll tell you who killed Hector

If we have a deal
Just let me pay my tab

Then we can head on up
And I can give you what you came for